


A Snow Globe Life

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - John Reese Lives, Alternate Universe - Root Lives, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, Post-Finale, Retirement, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27750430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: It would take a Christmas miracle for Harold to believe he deserves his happy ending...or maybe John might be enough to do the trick.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45
Collections: POI Advent 2020





	A Snow Globe Life

Some days, he wonders if this life he's stumbled into is a dream.

Outside, it certainly passes for one—the picturesque flakes whirling past the frosted window, landing upon a plane of pure white and frosting the evergreens standing guard beyond their yard. Inside, too. The air smells of cookies, sweet and buttery and spiced, the scent traveling on air filled with music, curling around his armchair by the window. In the kitchen, John sings along with Christmas carols, his voice an organized counterpart to the irregular clank of pots and pans in the sink and the rhythm of his shuffling limp. Behind Harold, its reflection just barely visible in the glass, their tree twinkles with golden lights, and their fireplace flickers and crackles.

They've carved out a beautiful retirement for themselves since Samaritan fell, and Harold is certain he does not deserve it.

Oh, it's hardly perfect—his bones ache more seemingly every day, John is due for another surgery at the start of the new year, and the both of them are haunted by nightmares and grief. John requires a cane and daily painkillers now, Harold anxiolytic medications and antidepressants he only reluctantly agreed to try. (The Machine insisted. He listens to her more often now.) But the first anniversary of the end of the war has been over for weeks, and they are closer to peace than either of them has been in a very long time.

There are other people who are far more worthy of this ending than Harold—Shaw and Root, who were unexpectedly reunited and found a happy beginning of their own; Fusco and his son; many, many others—but he is grateful it is his, and he intends to guard it with his life. Luckily, for now, there is no one to guard it from. No out-of-work Samaritan agents, no one from the government, no criminals. Just the two of them and the ghosts in their heads.

Those ghosts are silent today, hushed like the rest of the world by the snowfall. Snow always has brought him peace, ever since he was a child. Even now, when cold means pain and ice is a great danger for him and the man he loves, it calms him to look upon the expanse of pristine white and to watch the drifting flakes. The weather has said that it is time for a pause, for a breath. So he takes its advice. He sips his tea and listens and watches, and he feels...happy.

 _"It took me a while to put my finger on it, but I felt happy,"_ he remembers. And now he is the one having trouble wrapping his head around the emotion. Ever since the day he learned John survived, he has been bracing himself for learning it's a lie, for waking up and realizing this past year of recovery and love has been a dream. Through John's grueling convalescence and physical therapy, their first kiss, moving into this house outside the city, the first anniversary, now, Harold has been waiting for it to all fall apart.

For now, it feels like it won't. The magic of Christmas? Hardly. Just the precious joy of good days that are becoming steadily less rare.

A kiss to the top of his head jolts him from his thoughts. He jumps, and John chuckles. "Just me," John says, pressing another kiss into Harold's hair. "Sorry."

"I see your gift for stealth has not been diminished by your disability." How John still manages to creep about with a limp worse than Harold's own, Harold does not know, but it seems to be a source of great pride for John.

"I've been practicing." John wraps his arms around Harold's shoulders and rests his head atop Harold's. "'s pretty out there."

"Isn't it?" Harold sets his tea on a nearby table, and he reaches up and laces his fingers with John's. "Quite treacherous for the both of us now, but beautiful."

"Yeah." John doesn't sound despondent, or even wistful, but content. "Got no reason to go out, got no reason to worry about it...can just look."

Indeed they can. They have food and water aplenty, blankets and heat and a good generator, and, most importantly, each other. It's as though they are encased in the sanctuary of a snow globe together, their world finally set to rights after being upended by Samaritan. All there is for them to do now is exist and watch the falling snow, and enjoy John's latest baking adventure later.

John nuzzles the top of Harold's head with his nose, then kisses it again. "You've been drinking the wrong drink for it, though."

"Have I?" Harold asks, and finally turns to look at John, ignoring the protests of his back—oh, he has been sitting for far too long. He's gotten all stiff. But it was worth it to watch.

"Yeah," John repeats, the pure, joyful, _amused_ smile on his scarred face breathtaking. He smiles much more freely these days, even though he is surely in as much pain as Harold, if not more. But he is happier now, since he saved the world. "Gotta have hot chocolate when it snows. It's a law."

"Since when do we care about laws?" Harold asks, with a small huff of laughter. "I'm sure many a snowfall has been accompanied by tea over the centuries. Or hot cider, or mulled wine, or—"

"Sure they have." John tugs at Harold's hands, wordlessly urging him up. Harold obliges him, standing with a groan that he doesn't bother to stifle and that John doesn't comment on, then carefully stretching his back. "But I've got a nice, hot pot of cocoa simmering on the stove for us. Be a shame if I had to drink it all myself."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure that would be such a hardship for you," Harold says, playfully, rubbing at his tight muscles. If John hasn't worn himself out too much with baking, he'll have to see if—

John interrupts his thought by gently knocking Harold's hands away and taking over. "You're right," he says, putting his warm hands to good use on the tension. Harold sighs, relieved—ah, yes, exactly what he planned to ask for—and he leans into the touch, making a mental note to reciprocate later. "Huge hardship. All that chocolate, all those marshmallows. Might give me a toothache."

Harold chuckles. "Well, we can't have _that._ " That earns him another kiss to his head, then one to the back of his neck. "Though if the health of your teeth is that much of a concern, why did you make so many cookies?" He hasn't actually seen how many cookies John made, but he doesn't have to—he knows John. John Reese does not make modest batches of cookies.

Sure enough, John doesn't protest that he didn't make very many. "Maybe I'm hoping Santa will show up?" he says, sliding his hands around to splay on Harold's belly. Harold is half-tempted to ask if John is comparing his soft and rounded abdomen to Santa's paunch, but John always seems to cherish the parts of him that others might see as flaws and likely only sees it as a future home for his sweets. No need to sour the mood with his insecurities. "It's Christmas Eve, Harold. And that means cookies. So, come on. Gotta make sure they're okay for the big guy." He pats Harold's stomach. "Really important mission."

"Indeed," Harold says, feigning solemnity. "Are you sure we're both up to the task, Mr. Reese?"

"Only one way to find out, Finch," John replies, with pure glee in his voice. "C'mon—let's eat."

Harold cannot argue with that. "Then lead the way, please," he says, and lets John guide him to the kitchen, hand in hand.

The cookies are, as expected, plentiful and incredible. So is the hot chocolate. And, as they enjoy the simple pleasure of a meal of dessert, Harold's heart grows lighter. Maybe it's time to allow himself to be happy, he thinks, wrapping a hand around John's and making John smile. Maybe it's time to believe in this.

"Merry Christmas, Harold," John says, his eyes full of so much love that Harold's heart skips in his chest.

"And the same to you, my darling," Harold says, and brings John's hand to his lips for a kiss. It would look good with a ring on his finger, he thinks, so suddenly his heart seems to stop. The irregularity settles almost immediately. Now that the idea has occurred to him, it feels _right_. They're already committed to each other for life. Perhaps when the day comes that he feels worthy of John's guaranteed acceptance, he will seek to make things official. Hopefully that day will be soon.

But that is a matter for later. Right now, there is a holiday to celebrate. He snags another raspberry thumbprint shortbread and feeds it to John with what is probably an incredibly besotted smile. "Merry Christmas."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays (or end of the year, for any who aren't holiday people), all you lovelies! May it bring you joy, and may this hell year run itself out fast and bring you all a lovely 2021! 💖


End file.
